


On the opposite shore of sadness

by AngstyChaosMagicUser



Series: Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Everyone lives, F/M, Galadriel is a BAMF, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Melian is a BAMF, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Silmarils, also more characters will show up as story develops, also on the wives of the royal noldor beyond the second generation, apparently this is the only 'everyone lives' Silm fic, current title is from Only Human by K, don't be turned off by the ocs, esp since tolkien gave us minimal detail on the non-royal noldor, it is taking on a life of its own, then they're out of luck, they're kinda necessary for the plot, this fic was going to be two chapters, translated from Japanese into English by me, unless they died before the battle of unnumbered tears, was titled the Victory of Maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyChaosMagicUser/pseuds/AngstyChaosMagicUser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of experiencing a crushing defeat, the Union of Maedhros in successful at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, sealing Morgoth in Angband and recovering two of the three Silmarils. </p><p>...Apparently not all of Mandos' prophecies come true, and fate CAN be overcome (especially when you throw humans and a very stubborn Maia into the mix). That doesn't prevent everyone from Turgon to the Valar being baffled by Maedhros's seeming triumph over Doom, of course.</p><p>In which everyone (except Morgoth) gets a happy ending</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chase after dreams

**Author's Note:**

> In response to a kinkmeme prompt at http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=21266704#t21266704
> 
> "Instead of the Battle of Unnumbered tears, Maedhros scores the greatest of victories and not only do he and those who took part in his alliance walk out of there, but they walk out with two silmarils in hand!
> 
> ... Now what?
> 
> I would offer an endless supply of imaginary internet confections to anyone would write not only the Noldor rejoicing, but Turgon being all "What, but DOOM?!", and the Valar being... But... Doom?
> 
> Just everyone from Thingol to Manwe being shocked and all of the Doomed characters getting a happy ending? "
> 
> This was/is my first Silm fic, so I apologize greatly for the shoddy characterization (esp of Thingol, Celegorm, and Curufin)

_Kanashimi no mukou kishi ni_  
_Hohoemi ga aru toiu yo_  
_Tadori tsuku sono saki ni wa_  
_Nani ga bokura wo matteru_  
_Nigeru tame ja naku_  
_Yume ou tame ni_

 _Translation:_  
_On the opposite shore of sadness_  
_It’s said there is a smile_  
_We struggle on to that future_  
_What are we waiting for?_  
_The purpose is not to run away_  
_It’s to chase after dreams_  
_-Only Human by K; translation by me_

 -

 

“My lord?”

Ulfang nodded in faint acknowledgement of his son, Uldor, who had just entered the tent.

After a few long moments that Ulfang spent staring listlessly at his clasped hands, Uldor cleared his throat and continued. “What of Morgoth’s offer?” Silence, again, and Uldor sighed. “The promised aid could save many of our kinsmen’s lives, and the Sons of Fëanor are not exactly known for loyalty, but…”

“Even if our allies are treacherous, the men of Anargul have our honor.” Ulfang looked up at last, locking eyes with his son. “We will not betray our word. We march with Caranthir, no matter what.”

His son scowled, but reluctantly nodded. “As you command, my lord.”

Morgoth would find no allies among them.

 

-

 

“You are being a fool,” Melian said, lips pressed into a thin line. Thingol turned to argue, but she cut him off, eyes flashing. “Yes, there are few ruder than the Sons of Fëanor. Yes, two of them have attempted great harm to our daughter and law-son. Yes, they should respect you. Yes, they should treat you as the King you are. But this is not about petty grievances nor personal grudges! This is potentially the greatest, most important battle of our Age – possibly of all the Years of the Sun, if it goes right.”

“I will _not_ ally myself with those kinslayers!” Thingol thundered, “They would steal the Silmaril, my most prized possession, our dearest daughter’s bride-price, from me! How could you possibly ask me to aid such beings?”

Melian’s nostrils flared. “I care not for your precious Silmaril! That gem is cursed – Doom is upon those who covet it, and it has fallen under Morgoth’s spell. And how could you place such a thing above your kingdom? I have foreseen it – if Morgoth does not fall here, Doriath will fall in his place, and the elves of Middle Earth will be slaughtered, their numbers so reduced that they will inevitably fade. How can you justify holding onto grudges when so much hangs in the balance?”

“The Silmaril is not some petty thing! I have thought you beautiful, but what person of worth could possibly dismiss such glory?”

His wife went silent, the expression on her face one as beautiful and deadly as the keenest of swords. “Very well, then,” she said quietly, softly. “I see where your priorities lie. I shall argue no more with you.”

Thingol nodded, pleased. “I knew you would see sense at last, my wife.”

Her smile seemed oddly chilling.

 

-

 

“Prepare our forces to march.”

The captain startled, eyes wide to see Melian herself handing out orders, especially those that directly contradicted Thingol’s earlier commands. “My lady, what of the King’s wishes?”

She scowled, and the captain’s heart nearly froze. “The King has been bewitched by the Silmaril, and he sees not the threat posed by Morgoth. We must march, or we will die.”

Her words had the weight of prophecy. The captain nodded, mouth dry. “As you command, my lady.”

Doriath would come to Maedhros’ aid.

 

-

 

A vague sense of foreboding stole over Fingon as the various forces hashed out their plans, trying mostly to determine who would march with what force.

“Gwindor and his people should go with Maedhros,” he said slowly after turning the idea over in his head a few times. The others sent him sharp glances, especially Gwindor who leapt to his feet.

“By what authority do you say this?” he demanded, smoldering anger clear in his eyes. “There are few more skilled than my people!”

“I have had a premonition – it would be best, I feel, for your men to stay with the main force.” Gwindor scowled but, after some persuading, reluctantly relented.

(Later, Fingon would thank the Valar for his vision, as Gwindor’s brother was dismembered before them. If the hot-headed Gwindor and his men had stood by him, Fingon surely would have lost control of his forces.)


	2. Right now move forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maedhros processes their victory, and a council is called.

_Ashita sae mieta nara_  
_Tame iki mo nai kedo_  
_Nagare ni sakarau fune no you ni_  
_Ima wa mae e susume_

 _Translation:_  
_Even if it appears tomorrow_  
_We can’t sigh_  
_Like a ship going against the current_  
_Right now move forwards_  
_-Only Human by K; translation by me_

 

-

 

“It worked,” Maedhros whispered, his sword hilt slipping from numb fingers. Sunlight, reflected off of ice and twisted metal, danced about the ruined halls of Thangorodrim as if Arien herself celebrated alongside his brothers. Nearly everyone had retreated away from Morgoth’s mangled body, leaving their leaders alone in the midst of an odd silence that smothered the nearby sounds of cleanup, celebration, and mourning.

Fingon, face streaked with dirt and blood, smiled and bent to pick up the fallen sword. “Don’t act so surprised, mirimaner,” he chided as he wiped the blade clean. “Your plan was sound.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Just – the Doom. Did Mandos not proclaim that all those who follow the House of Fëanor would come to ruin?”

Fingon hummed. “Perhaps it is because you relinquished your claim to the kingship? The Doom does not lay specifically upon the House of Fingolfin, and at least in name all Noldor now follow me, rather than Fëanor or his sons.”

He nodded slowly at that. It made sense, somewhat. “Still, I cannot help but feel apprehensive. One Silmaril remains, in Thingol’s hands no less, and he has refused us before. And somehow I doubt an arrow to the eye will keep Morgoth disembodied for long…”

“Whatever may come, we will handle it together,” Fingon proclaimed, grasping his lover’s shoulder. A soft smile crept over Maedhros’s face. Against his better judgement, he couldn’t help but believe in Fingon’s words.

“Together,” he agreed, slipping his arm around Fingon’s waist.

 

-

 

After gathering themselves, Fingon and Maedhros returned to the main Noldor camp to find Maedhros’s brothers (well, mostly Curufin and Caranthir) crammed into their large tent, squabbling over who would keep the two Silmarils. Maedhros shook his head in exasperation. “ _None_ of you are keeping them apart from the others. For now, we will guard them together, and if we must be separated, I shall take one, and Maglor the other.” Both Curufin and Caranthir scowled at him, but after a withering look they subsided.

Fingon’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. Maedhros rolled his eyes.

“If everyone is done, we need to find the other leaders and discuss our next move,” he proclaimed.

Celegorm groaned. “Really? Can’t we celebrate for a bit longer? Some guy from Doriath – Oropher I think – was going to fetch some wine… His brat got off the final shot, so the party’s gonna be _big._ ” Maedhros mentally cringed at the slightly mangled Sindarin, still expecting to hear his father’s voice raise in yet another grammar rant even after all these years.

“Who in all of Arda brings _wine_  to a battle?” Caranthir muttered under his breath – apparently he’d never met anyone from the House of Oropher, often jokingly called the Party King. Caranthir’s brothers, of course, ignored him.

Maedhros sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Stay here if you want. But many of Morgoth’s creations escaped, and he _will_  reform eventually. A firmer Alliance needs to be established, and it’s best to do so while everyone is still in good spirits.”

Celegorm shrugged. “Whatever. Don’t expect me to save any wine for you, though!”

“I’ll come along,” Caranthir said before anyone could respond to Celegorm’s inane comment. “And I’ll make sure the Men attend.”

Maglor nodded. “I’ll join you as well,” he said, and then nudged Amras, who, after a shared glance with his twin, agreed that Ambarussa would join the council. “And - Curufin? I would suggest you don’t come. Your presence would be… somewhat counterproductive.”

Curufin scowled at him, but went to stand next to Celegorm after Maedhros, Caranthir, and Ambarussa all nodded. “So be it. I will stay with Celegorm, then. I would counsel against trusting Melian, if she is at all like her daughter.”

“So more honorable than you - got it,” Amras shot back - of all the brothers, Ambarussa had the most dealings with Luthien and her followers in Ossiriand.

Curufin’s hand immediately flew to his knife hilt, and Maedhros stepped between the two. “I will give Queen Melian’s words the consideration they deserve, as an ally whose ultimate goals might differ from ours. However,” and he turned to glare briefly at Amras, who remained uncowed, “we must still trust one another, and keep in mind our common cause. Am I clear?”

Both Curufin and Amras gave an indistinct mumble in answer - probably the best Maedhros was going to get out of them. At least Curufin removed his hand from his blade.

A stilted silence lingered for nearly a minute, until Fingon cleared his throat and said, far too brightly, “Good that that’s all settled. Can you help us get word to the other leaders, then? I already spoke to King Turgon, who promised to bring Lords Húrin and Huor, but we haven’t yet managed to find Lord Haldir, Lord Bór, Lord Ulfang, Lord Azaghâl, Gwindor, Lord Círdan, or Queen Melian.”

“I _had_ wanted to check on Azaghâl and his forces – last I saw him, he was battling Glaurung,” Caranthir mused, clearly grateful for the change in subject (he had always disliked the all-too-common family shouting matches).

“It’d probably be best if you two speak to Queen Melian,” Maglor stated, indicating both Maedhros and Fingon. “We can handle the others.”

“Speaking of, where _is_  she? I lost track of her forces early in the battle,” Fingon asked, clearly feeling somewhat embarrassed – few could claim to have lost track of a Maia, especially one like Melian.

Amrod grinned. “I saw her fighting – just follow the trail of dead Balrogs.”

Celegorm’s mouth dropped open, while Curufin’s eyes went wide as his lips silently shaped the words ‘trail of dead Balrogs.’ Knowing those two, Maedhros thought, they were probably rethinking picking a fight with Doriath.

“You’ll need to ask her about the Silmaril, of course,” Caranthir said, scowling.

“I won’t stand in your way, but it’s probably best to wait until everything’s more settled to bring that up,” Fingon cautioned. Maedhros nodded and acquiesced – Fingon had had more dealings with Melian and Thingol than they, after all.

His brothers grumbled, but didn’t bother arguing when Maedhros dismissed them to their tasks (and Celegorm to his wine, and likely Curufin to his plotting).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> mirimaner - from Quenya, "mirima," "very valuable" or "free," and "ner," a masculine name suffix. Thanks to elfdict.com for translation
> 
> So... yeah. Sorry this took so long to get updated. My muse and I weren't on speaking terms for a while, and then it kinda ran away with me...
> 
> Might eventually add the actual battle as a bonus chapter, though don't hold your breath
> 
> The Council, the forging of a lasting peace, and the fate of the third Silmaril are (probably) in the next chapter, which I have no clue when I'll finish. I'm out of my depressive episode and already have ~600 words written so hopefully soonish?
> 
> And yes, Thranduil shot Morgoth in the eye. Probably while using an orc as a skateboard (Legolas had to get it from _somewhere_ )
> 
> And I know that the "trail of dead Balrogs" thing is a bit cracky, but I just had to include that line... Helps that my headcanon for Balrogs [to reconcile Tolkien's various versions, where the number ranged from "thousands" to "three," and the power level from "slightly above canon fodder" to "ridiculous"] is that there are seven Balrog Lords (the Maiar) and then tons of lesser balrogs, and the power difference between a Balrog Lord and a lesser balrog is similar to that between Azog and a goblin.
> 
> [Edited to add the lyrics at the top, and at the bottom to improve Curufin's characterization - I finally got around to reading the Lay of Leithian - and give Ambarussa actual characterization]


	3. In a place exhausted by anguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long (over nine months...). I started on a new mood stabilizer, which made me very stably depressed. Finally decided I'd rather risk hypermanic episodes than be constantly depressed, and have just recently regained my ability to write and draw. Further chapters should be up soon. Note: I've editted the previous chapters (Ch One only a few words, for improved flow, Ch 2 at the end because I finally read the Lay of Leithian, and wow Curufin is a manipulative asshole who shouldn't be anywhere near negotiations, so I changed things to reflect that). I've also added a few lyrics from Les Mis at the start, because it has that same bizarre mixture of "everyone dies" and "things will get better eventually" as the Silm

_Kurushimi no tsukita basho ni_  
_Shiawase ga matsu toiu yo_  
_Boku wa mada sagashite iru_  
_Kisetsu hazure no himawari_

 _Translation:_  
_In a place exhausted by anguish_  
_It’s said there is happiness and good luck_  
_I’m still searching_  
_For the season’s last sunflower_  
_-Only Human by K; translation by me_

 

-

 

The meeting went as well as could be expected, especially given that it occurred at a half-dead Lord Azaghâl’s bedside. Yes, they all knew Morgoth wasn’t _dead_ dead. Yes, they’d team up to hunt down the remaining orcs, Balrogs, wargs, and assorted other nasties. Yes, everyone was properly grateful to Doriath that one of their archers took down Morgoth while Luthien froze him in place long enough to be killed. No, they wouldn’t turn on each other now that they lacked a common enemy. No, Melian couldn’t make promises about trade or opening her realm. No, Caranthir and Curufin weren’t going to suddenly stop being assholes. No, Maedhros had no intention of handing Celegorm and Curufin over to face Doriath’s justice over the whole Luthien debacle. And, by the way, _Sauron was unaccounted for._

Sauron. Chief among Morgoth’s lieutenants. Finrod’s murderer. The origin, Maedhros suspected, of the vast majority of Morgoth’s successful strategies. He could with some confidence say that Sauron hadn’t actually been involved in the battle at all, given how suspiciously poorly led Morgoth’s forces were.

But, well, there wasn’t exactly that much they could do until Sauron revealed himself, short of searching every dark corner of Arda.

Effectively the only other thing they’d settled was that Melian would lead a task force deeper into Angband, accompanied by Luthien, Maedhros, Maglor, and the two recovered Silmarils, to scour clean as much filth as they could manage. The topic of how to permanently stop Morgoth had, of course, come up, but Melian was very firmly convinced only the Valar could stop him on anything resembling a permanent basis, and the Valar were rather resolutely ignoring Middle Earth.

“If we have all three Silmarils, we might be able to bind him, at least for a time,” Maedhros said at length. “Truthfully only my father could have wielded them to their full capabilities, but they respond well enough to us and were in large part designed to counter Morgoth’s dark influence.”

Melian frowned. “Such a prison would need to be vigilantly maintained, but it could theoretically be done. If he is bound soonest and if nothing goes wrong, then such a binding might stave off his rise by millennia.” The group broke out into low muttering, each turning to their old allies. Melian raised a hand and gestured for silence, expression grim. “However, Morgoth is cunning and has long familiarity with the Silmarils. It is not impossible that he could feed on their energy and regain his strength sooner. And even were Fëanor himself to return to life to craft an ideal prison, such a measure would still only be temporary. A thousand years may seem a long time for peace to Men and younger Elves, but it is not nearly enough for us to recover all of our many losses and craft an army capable of withstanding any assault.”

“You just wish to deny us the Silmaril, our birthright!” Caranthir burst out, leaping to his feet. Ulfang followed half a beat after him, and Azaghâl called out assent from where he lay. Gwindor and Mablung surged to Melian’s defense, their shouts quickly drowning out Caranthir’s, until all five voices blended in an indecipherable cacophony, which Círdan and Huor quickly joined. Ambarussa, Bór, Haldir, and Húrin interposed themselves between the squabbling leaders and Maglor physically restrained Caranthir, futilely trying to calm everyone down, while Melian just groaned and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Turgon buried his face in one palm, clearly fed up with his allies’ immaturity (this was the tenth such argument in the last four hours).

“QUIET!” Fingon’s clenched fist slammed onto the table, his resonant voice laden with Song, enough to jolt all those present except Melian and Maedhros. The bickering petered off, though Caranthir and Gwindor continued to grumble, and Azaghâl turned his legendary glower to the High King.

"Is everyone done shouting at each other?" Fingon asked, voice deceptively calm. Several of the others shot him sour looks, but backed off after a quelling glance from Turgon, Maedhros, or Melian - whomever they were allied with. Círdan at least had the grace to look mildly embarrassed at his own behavior. "Good. As established earlier, this is _not the time_ to be arguing over the Silmarils. That is a matter for Doriath and Fëanor’s sons to resolve between themselves. Now, given the previously established difficulties in finding a long term solution to Morgoth, does anybody have any suggestions for the short term, to buy us time?”

“Figuring out where he’ll manifest and then repeatedly stabbing him to death?” somebody muttered - Maedhros didn’t bother figuring out who, especially since everyone else pretended not to have heard.

Melian sighed. “Already it will likely take him at least a few decades to return, possibly centuries, if his remaining followers don’t assist his rise. Theoretically, burning the remains and using the ashes to construct a binding ward _might_ work, and at least should prevent others from hastening his re-embodiment. It most certainly should restrict where he re-embodies, so at the very least will allow us to set a guard.”

“The dwarves would be proud to form part of such a watch,” Azaghâl announced. The others quickly murmured their assent.

So, apparently, their plan _was_ repeatedly stabbing him to death. Joy.

“If that is all?” Fingon asked after a pause, a tinge of pleading in his tone (likely perceptible only to Maedhros and Turgon).

And, of course, there turned out to be yet another hour of incredibly minor details to squabble over. Fortunately, no one else brought up the Silmarils.

-

Fingon and Maedhros returned to Maedhros’ tent together, both too tired to care what rumors might spread. A comfortable silence lingered between them, as the sounds of both celebration and mourning filled the air.

Maedhros couldn’t help but groan when he pushed aside the heavy tent flap, only to see his cousin Galadriel seated at his campaign desk chair. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she appeared to be meditating, though as soon as both Fingon and Maedhros stepped in her gaze focused and snapped to them.

She was clad in plate armor, the intricate details concealed under dirt and scratches and the black blood of their enemies. She had clearly only bothered attending to her hair, as it alone shone clean despite the grime covering the rest of her body.

“Cousin,” Maedhros said quietly, thrown off - given her disdain for Fëanor and his sons, he had fully expected the past silence between them to last unto the ending of the world. “What brings you here?”

“I have a deal for you,” she announced, gaze sharp. Her eyes darted to the right, clearly fixing on Fingon. “Perhaps it might be better to discuss this in private.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Whatever you might say to me, you may also say to Fingon. I have no secrets from him.”

She shrugged. “Very well.” And her hands moved, uncovering a burden in her lap Maedhros had not previously registered. Maedhros’ breath froze in his chest when the brilliant light spilled out, revealing a Silmaril swathed in the thick cloth. But the two they had captured yet remained on his own person, so this must be -

“The Silmaril of Luthien,” Fingon said, fixing her with a firm stare.

Maedhros caught his breath, and croaked, “How came you by this.”

“Oh, Queen Melian helped, Oropher as well. It was a simple matter, really, to distract King Thingol and get his guards drunk, while I swapped the Silmaril for a simple mimic. Of course it won’t hold up to scrutiny, but should be enough to feel the same when in its case.” A faint smirk had crawled onto Galadriel’s face.

“And, of course, you want something in exchange.” Maedhros nearly shook his head - this was going to be a diplomatic _nightmare_ since of course he and his brothers would be Thingol’s first suspects. The only bright side was that it headed off the possibility of war erupting - at least, war started by the Sons of Fëanor or their allies.

“Oh, nothing much.” Galadriel’s smile faded. “For Queen Melian - well, essentially, she wants all the Sons of Fëanor and their allies off her continent. Also, that all three Silmarils be removed as far from Doriath as possible, as she would rather any future wars over them occur outside her sphere of influence. Naturally, that you speak not of her role in this. As for me, I wish for my own realm, east of the Blue Mountains. I would have aid - contacts with the dwarves, trading contracts, military alliances, weapons and food and other supplies. Items of minor power, with which to ward my realm. Permission to recruit followers from among your peoples. Oropher wishes the same.”

“And, of course, armies and amnesty to protect you from King Thingol’s wrath,” Fingon muttered. Maedhros empathized with his exasperation. He’d known Galadriel was ambitious and more than a little bit reckless (he strongly suspected the reason she loathed his father so was that they had entirely too much in common), but _still_. She would, however, make a good ally, especially since they would need to reestablish their own realms.

“Naturally.” Galadriel nearly beamed at Fingon. “Of course, I am willing to give you time to discuss this with your own allies.”

Maedhros sighed and shook his head. “No. It’s too good a deal. Caranthir will certainly be willing, as will Maglor. I will ensure the others fall in line.”

“Excellent.” Galadriel stood and held out the Silmaril. Almost gingerly, Maedhros lifted it from its burlap ( _burlap!_ ) setting. As he cradled it in his hands, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, a tight band about his chest unravel - his Oath had been fulfilled.

“It seems destiny has little to say in the face of your stubbornness, cousin,” Maedhros muttered, the corner of his mouth quirking up. His fingers trailed over the unnaturally smooth and warm surface, almost of the own accord. It was a struggle, to keep his eyes torn away from its brilliance.

Fingon laughed. “I’d say few are those who would quarrel with the Lady Galadriel!” Galadriel’s laughter rose as well, high and tinkling. Maedhros couldn’t help but chuckle.

For all the troubles ahead, everything seemed brighter and better somehow. As Huor had proclaimed, the dark night had ended and the sun had risen once more to shine brilliantly over all. Not even the knowledge that night would fall again could dampen their joy.


	4. Move farther ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the aftermath of battle is confronted, and the near future is discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short chapter brought to you by an essay on Russian history, and me very determinedly procrastinating on it. Sorry for the shortness, but I figured it'd be better to post it now rather than later, since I don't know when I'll have time for the rest. Also as a note I have the headcanon that both Fingon and Maedhros were healers in Aman, which was actually how they met (developed after someone pointed out that it's highly unlikely Fingon could've safely and cleanly removed Maedhros' hand without medical training). 
> 
> The lyrics at the beginning are from the song Only Human, which is the theme song for Ichi Rittoru no Namida (One Litre of Tears), a beautiful, amazing, sweet, tragic (both in its end and in its shortness; you're informed in the first five minutes that the main character dies at the end) Japanese dorama. Seriously go watch it.

_Kodoku ni mo nareta nara_  
_Tsukiakari tayori ni_  
_Hane na ki tsubasa de tobi ta tou_  
_Motto mae e susume_

_Translation:_  
_Even if we’ve grown used to solitude_  
_Relying only on the light of the moon_  
_Fly away with featherless wings_  
_Move farther ahead_  
_-Only Human by K. Translation by me_

 

-

 

The last day of Morgoth’s dominion ended with a blazing sunset, as elves, men, and dwarves alike forgot all past enmity in favor of celebrating the end of Darkness. Indeed throughout all the reaches of Middle Earth voices rose in song, for when Morgoth perished all his fell minions that did his work in Rhûn, in Harad, in Eriador and Rhovanion took heed and ceased their relentless assault upon the Free Peoples, some fleeing into dark holes beyond even the reach of dwarves, some falling stricken where they stood, only to be slain. And birds brought on swift wing the glad tidings to all who would listen: the Dark Lord is dead, his body smote within his own halls.

As the short night of Midsummer faded, the Sun rose glorious and bright as Arien looked down upon a victorious world. Everafter would this day be marked as the dawn of the Second Age and, as long as memory persisted, the New Year for all those who fought the Darkness.

And so too would the names of Luthien, Thranduil, and Maedhros echo in hopeful song unto the breaking of the world.

-

Soon, though, the giddiness of a dawn they had never thought to see faded, and Maedhros and Fingon set to work. Numerous were their wounded, and as many hands as could be spared were needed. Melian, Galadriel, and Luthien themselves toiled alongside Noldor, Men, and Dwarves alike in common cause. (Melian, fortunately, had given Maedhros leave to delay informing his brothers until a less hectic time).

To Maedhros and Fingon was given command of the healers assigned to the worst of the wounded, for great was their experience in tending the wounds of pitched battle and the poisons of orcs, and great were the Songs of Power they had learned long ago from Estë. Fingon organized shifts among their healers, so as to stave off exhaustion both physical and emotional. Rarely did he and Maedhros work alongside one another, for their leadership, alongside the most experienced healers of Men and Dwarves, was sorely needed to keep the emergency wards from falling into chaos as more and more wounded were pulled from the battlefield.

Over a week passed before the majority of the worst wounded were dead or stabilized, and Maedhros and Fingon could finally rest. The only ones still in intensive care were those still battling poison or infection, or who were beyond saving but clung to life yet, and they were few enough that the shifts could be cut down to a third their previous size. So, too, had many of the other healing tents emptied, all those well enough to move about dismissed to their own camps. Now came the long waits, as the unconscious lingered between life and death, as broken bones mended, as infection slowly receded or slew. Of course, those with open wounds who had been let go would still need to be monitored, lest their wounds festered, and that could easily be handled by apprentices.

“I want to sleep for a week,” Fingon muttered at length, staring blankly at the roof of Maedhros’ tent. He slouched into the somewhat rickety chair, as Maedhros sat on the cot with his head bowed.

“I feel the same.” Maedhros sighed. “Yet the issue of Melian’s demands needs to be resolved, before Curufin or Caranthir lose their patience. Caranthir, at least, has been too busy overseeing his forces to cause any trouble, and when he’s not riled up he’s usually rational.”

Fingon groaned. “And everyone expects me to be everywhere at once, filling my role as the High King. I’m more and more tempted to just abdicate to Turgon.”

“Once peace is fully settled, it might be possible,” Maedhros said after a pause, lifting his head to observe his cousin. “Turgon has done well as King of Gondolin. Unlike us, he knows how to be a peacetime ruler.”

“He’d probably never forgive me.” Fingon slumped in his seat. “Though who knows? With everything settled, he might be willing to take the burden. Eager, even - he has a ridiculous savior complex, and leading most of the Noldor into a new, prosperous age sounds like something he’d consider an opportunity.”

Maedhros hummed. “And even if he refuses, or decides to seek a return to Aman, there are likely other options.”

“Perhaps. The Noldor could always just elect a new leader, and there are the descendants of Ambarussa and Maglor, if those of the House of Fëanor born after the Kinslaying are acknowledged as potential heirs, and the second generation or third generation are allowed to stay, or my grandson, if descent through the female line is acknowledged.” Fingon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly tiring of the conversation. Maedhros frowned briefly, uncomfortably reminded of Fingon’s political marriage and the two daughters that had been the result.

Then a germ of an idea lodged itself in Maedhros’ mind. It might be difficult for the Noldor to accept, but there were _female_ descendants fully capable of ruling, Lalwen and Idril chief among them...

Well, it would be a moot point if Turgon accepted the position. Maedhros decided he would wait and see what came of the next few years, before bringing up the possibility.


	5. A stronger and stronger light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war slowly winds to a close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Because writer's block, I've only got 241 words of this damn chapter actually written, and the rest is refusing to come even though I've got it outlined.
> 
> However, my brain works in strange and mysterious ways, hence the fact that the last (and next) chapter is done, with a good dent having been made in the sequel. 
> 
> So I'm posting what I've got done so far of this chapter, plus my fleshed-out outline of events during it. Eventually I hope to come back to this and turn it into an actual story.

_Amagumo ga kireta nara_   
_Nureta michi kagayaku_   
_Yami dake ga oshietekureru_   
_Tsuyoi, tsuyoi hikari_   
_Tsuyoku mae e susume_

_Translation:_   
_Even as it cuts through the rain clouds_   
_The wet road shines_   
_Only the darkness can teach_   
_A stronger and stronger light_   
_Strongly move forwards_   
_-Only Human, by K; translation by me_

 

 -

 

Maedhros rode up to Gwindor’s camp with the next dawn. While there had been some effort to clear out the near reaches, none had yet ventured into the depths of Angband. A trickle of patients still made their way to the healing tents from various skirmishes. According to Redhril, their best scout (and one of Ambarussa’s far too many children), the Enemy had begun to properly regroup. While there seemed to be no real cohesion among Morgoth’s different creations, they couldn’t risk the army reforming - Tevildo’s demonic cats, Thu’s undead, and the remaining lesser balrogs posed an especially high threat even when _not_ cooperating.

It didn’t help Maedhros’ nerves that none of them had any concrete knowledge of the Silmarils.

And, now, the time had come to inform his family of Melian’s terms - why Maedhros sought Celebrimbor. Furthermore, Maedhros knew not if his nephew had even marched with Gwindor’s forces. He very well might have chosen to stay in Nargothrond with the majority of Orodreth’s warriors.

He dismounted before Gwindor’s tent, handing off the reins to a nearby page. Gwindor almost immediately drew back the flap and beckoned him to enter.

“What brings you here?” Gwindor asked, remaining standing, clearly wary. A deep grief lurked in his tired eyes, and Maedhros remembered hearing that his brother had been killed.

Maedhros fought the urge to sigh. “I’m looking for Celebrimbor. Did he accompany you?”

Gwindor nodded. “I can lead you to him.”

 

-

 

...And that's all I have written.

 

Outline/summary of the rest (likely to be split into more chapters later):

-Maedhros goes to Gwindor’s camp to find Celebrimbor and bring him to a meeting of the Feanorians, where Maedhros reveals that they have the third silmaril, alongside Melian’s terms. Most of Maedhros’s brothers are disgruntled that he waited so long to inform them. Shouting and arguing ensue.

-Ambarussa have already planned to head back east with their wives and their wives’ people, so have no issue. Celegorm points out that it isn’t Melian’s continent by any stretch of the imagination - Thingol rules the Sindar of Beleriand, and even then not all of them - and Curufin argues that Melian’s decree would cut them off from their allies, and that it’s overly vague - are the Feanorians never allowed to set foot in Beleriand again? What of their descendants - Fingon wed Maglor’s daughter, and their daughter wed Orodreth, so are all the Noldorin kings except Turgon to be forced out? Etc, etc. Eventually everyone agrees to the deal, more or less reluctantly.

-Caranthir brings up that they need to discuss this with their human allies, too - Bor and Ulfang have sworn allegiance to them and been granted lands, but might not want to uproot themselves because of elven politics. Maedhros agrees, says he will ask Melian for a meeting between her and the Feanorians (and their followers), to clarify and discuss terms.

-Maedhros, Maglor, Curufin, Celebrimbor, and those of their descendents inclined towards magic retreat to experiment some with the silmarils. They figure that the silmarils can probably be used to magnify Songs of Power, but they’re not sure what else beyond that. Celebrimbor proves to have an affinity towards the silmarils. Maglor is the only other one that they respond to much  at all.

 

-Task force to clear out Angband meets the next day. It contains Melian, Galadriel Luthien, Maedhros, Maglor, Celebrimbor, various OC relatives we haven’t met (e.g. some of Ambarussa’s children), etc (including Men and Dwarves, plus Elves from most of the forces). Most of the leaders, including Fingon, are elsewhere, handling politics, coordination of forces, resources, and the return of forces from the battlefield to home. (Also they decided putting all or even many of their leaders in one group would be foolish). The only OCs definitely mentioned by name are Alphain (Maglor’s wife, the leader of the Northern Sindar), Súlaer and Linnel (identical twin sisters, wed to Ambarussa), and Rŷn (Súlaer and Amrod’s daughter)

-Maglor and Celebrimbor each carry a silmaril. The third is left with Ambarussa (who aren’t in the task force).

-There is a good bit of fighting. The task force stays down for multiple days. Angband is extensive, so they conclude clearing it will likely be a more massive undertaking than previously established. They are able to scatter many of the enemy’s forces. Tevildo’s forces flee early on, aren’t seen from again. Thû sends many undead after them, doesn’t engage himself. The layout of the extensive cavern system under Angband makes scouring it clean difficult. Leaders, soldiers, etc are rotated through the task force as the days drag on

 

-During all this discussions are continuing among other leaders.

-Melian clarifies at one point that her demand does not apply to the later generations who are currently not counted among the Feanorians (largely those who’ve married into other families)

-Melian meets with Feanorians and followers, confirms that any of their vassals who wish to remain in Beleriand will be granted overall autonomy, but must either forswear Feanorians or be released from their oaths and must swear not to attack Doriath. Will have option of becoming vassals of Doriath, to be negotiated with Thingol.

-After talking to his sons and other soldiers, Bor meets with Maedhros and Maglor, swearing to follow them from Beleriand.

-Later, Ulfang meets with Caranthir, saying that he is unwilling to uproot his people for now, but will follow if/when he receives communication indicating available arable lands have been found; he mentions disease and hunger among his people as why he doesn’t want to subject them to yet another move (Caranthir acknowledges this as reasonable and releases Ulfang from his oaths, then says that he will ask Melian whether Doriath might provide aid in acknowledgement of Ulfang’s people’s bravery. Caranthir has heard that Bor will follow by now, says Ulfang can likely have the [more fertile] land Bor is vacating).

-At some point Fingon meets with Turgon. They discuss everything that’s happened since they parted. Fingon reveals that he wishes to abdicate and go east, asks if Turgon wishes for the High Kingship. Turgon though says he’s planning on seeking a return to Aman with those who will follow him

 

-The leaders & significant individuals of the Noldor present (Gwindor speaking for the elves of Nargothrond) agree that later elections (ofc with only high-ranking men having a say, b/c this is a quasi-medieval society) should be held to decide the new High King, since Fingon’s abdicating, Turgon’s attempting to leave, most of the non-leaders present object to Orodreth, and no one’s certain if descent through the female line should be acknowledged.

 

-After two weeks of forays into Angband, fighting largely dies down, and the leaders decide to go ahead and move forward on binding Morgoth, though one main issue is where they should restrict his reemergence to. Maedhros (having already discussed this with his brothers) volunteers Amon Ereb - it’s already well fortified, fairly centrally located to the various forces who will be forming the guard, and will soon be abandoned when the Feanorians leave Beleriand, making it easy to turn over to international control. (This is also when Maedhros announces that he, his brothers, and their followers will be leaving Beleriand; he makes no connection to Melian or Doriath though of course, and refuses to answer further questions about the move). Eventually this plan is agreed upon.

-Most of the army decamps. Morgoth’s remains are hauled to Amon Ereb; Caranthir has gone ahead to let his people know of the coming move, get them ready and out of the central fortress. The binding is done.

 

 


	6. A determined soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of all Eä is recorded in Song and Tapestry - 
> 
> But songs can be rewritten, and it takes but a clever hand to change a woven pattern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we come to the end of this monster. Seriously, a baby elephant would have taken less time to make (gestation period of 22 months, versus the 23 months this has languished... And I'm technically not even done...)

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, that can circumvent or hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 

-

 

The soft whir and clack of the spinning wheel filled the air, as Míriel twisted the myriad filaments of the unseen world into the threads from which Destiny would be woven, a single strand of her hair (constantly renewed by the same Songs of Power that Luthien used in the crafting of her cloak of shadows) woven into each one. The Song of Eä resonated just beyond hearing, _what should be_ unfolding in glorious detail, the thrumming power of the Flame Imperishable flowing through her, such that she might eternally weave strands of her own fëa into her work and never be exhausted. Her son often worked beside her, his form flickering with flame yet extremely solid for an unhoused fëa. Though he lacked the ability to speak, his presence comforted her, and, she suspected, hers him. Today, though, he had drifted off upon his many wanderings - perhaps to watch his sons’ victory from afar.

A presence gently filled Míriel’s perception, and she halted her work to greet the visitor. Vairë stood at the door to Míriel’s workshop, her form composed entirely of woven light.

“I had not thought it possible, to so alter the tapestries that the Song itself would change,” the Weaver said dryly.

Míriel smiled, unrepentant. “Why should I create works I am unfond of? I did not think it would be so surprising, that I would weave as I see fit.”

“It is not the _desire_ that startles me, as many have tried and failed to alter fate. It is the ability.” Vairë flowed forwards, gazing with clear admiration upon the softly glowing spools of thread Míriel had completed. Her hand brushed over the soft fleece. “It is imbued with the Flame,” she gasped, wonder in her voice. “How have you - ?”

A delighted laugh sprung forth from Míriel’s lips. Ever since her re-embodiment, she had labored in secret, and she rejoiced to finally reveal the fruits of her and now her son’s labor. “A simple deduction - we have been taught, have we not, that Eru’s very being permeates all of Eä, that all who live are facets of His mind? And that the Imperishable Flame resides with Eru, _is_ Eru. Is it truly such a leap, to realize then that _everyone_ holds the Flame within the deepest parts of their fëa?” She smiled gently. “My son came to the same realization, and so brought forth the Silmarilli, which revealed the Flame to the visible world. He failed to follow through, though, to consider all the implications of that revelation ere his death.”

“Many would consider this blasphemy,” Vairë murmured as she examined Míriel’s weavings more closely. “Blasphemy of the worst kind, akin to the Marring.”

Míriel shrugged, uncaring. “Did not Eru say that even the Marring had been part of His plan, and would bring greater glory to His Creation? All things that happen are by His will, after all - if my workings went against His plan, they would hardly have succeeded.” Admittedly, few would consider ‘if the Creator doesn’t intervene to stop me it can’t be that bad of an idea’ to be a viable basis for decision-making, but Míriel had never claimed to be overly rational.

“I suppose nothing less could be expected of Úvíryala Therindë.” Vairë smiled and shook her head. “So far, no great ill has come of your workings, and tremendous suffering would have fallen upon Arda had you not intervened.” Her smile faded into a stern visage, though her voice remained gentle. “However, I cannot allow you to continue interfering. You are hereby banished from the Halls. I will permit only enough time for a farewell to your husband and son. Afterwards… There will be a council called within the Ring of Doom, to determine what changes you have made, and what further punishment should occur, if any.” Vairë fell silent, turmoil in her eyes. Then, softly, “You will not be imprisoned, neither during the trial nor after. The worst punishment would be exile, but such is unlikely.”

“I expected such. In truth, I would not have been shocked at eternal imprisonment, nor immediate exile.” Míriel set down her tools and stood. She had long since finished her tapestries, after all. “However, I will be keeping the threads I have spun here, and the fruits of my personal projects.” She gestured to the softly glowing spools about her.

Vairë nodded, seeming sorrowful. Did she mourn Míriel’s lack of faith in the Valar’s mercy? “Fair enough. They are the works of your own hands after all.”

“You are most gracious,” Míriel said, unable to keep an edge of sarcasm out of her voice. If Vairë noticed, she gave no indication.

Míriel began to gather her things, stowing them in a rucksack she had prepared for this very purpose. Fortunately, she had thought to enchant it to be larger on the inside, else she would never have fit all of her works. Vairë lingered, unspeaking and unmoving. (Did she seek to ensure Míriel would make no further changes? Would she be Míriel’s escort from the Halls?)

Finished, Míriel walked to the door, pausing on the threshold. She turned to Vairë and said, voice deceptively soft, “Regardless of the trial’s outcome, I wish to leave Aman. There is nothing for me here. Shall I be provided with transportation, or must I cross the Helcaraxë?”

Vairë’s form flickered in a way that would have been a flinch from an elf. After all, she must know better than even her husband how the Noldor had suffered upon the Grinding Ice.

(Míriel was honest enough to admit to the cruel, petty satisfaction that curled in her breast. Her son had inherited far more than her stubbornness - he had her cruelty, her anger, her recklessness, her ambition, her vicious love.)

“The Teleri will not consent to furnishing you with a ship, though likely a lesser craft might be found.” Vairë’s eyes darkened, likely in remembrance of the tapestries she had woven, the way Nienna had wept.

“Very well,” Míriel said, waving her hand dismissively. “I care little for the art of the craft that bears me hence.” She had never held the ‘art’ of the Teleri (little more than elaborations upon what Ulmo taught them, with no eye for true innovation) in particularly high regard anyways. Perhaps a ‘lesser craft’ might at least show some ingenuity in design.

Vairë offered no reply to Míriel’s last comment, and they proceeded in silence from the Halls.

(And so Míriel once more breathed air free of the cloyingly sweet flowers of Lórien or the fibrous dust of spinning and weaving. And she laughed as she walked in the Sun.)

(She thought, giddily, _I am the Captain of a greater ship than they have ever known._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linguistic notes:  
> Úvíryala: “Unchanging,” I’m saying is used for “stubborn” (adjectival), based on virya-, verb meaning “to change (intransitive),” the active participle of which is “víryala.” Ú- corresponds to “un-,” has a negative connotation
> 
> Everyone is now calling Míriel by her proper name of Therindë since the first time someone dared called her Serindë she set about proving where her son got his temper. Also that he's a hell of a lot less acerbic than she is.
> 
> I'm going with a completely non-standard and non-canonical interpretation of Míriel here - I won't say she's out of character, though. Basically my argument is that the version we saw of her in LaCE is BS, as is every other description painting her as a complete angel with the sole exception of her stubbornness. Míriel is more than a perfect mother and wife, flawed only in that she 'abandoned' life (and therefore her husband and son; the text seems to criticize her fairly heavily for causing her husband grief, never mind her own feelings)
> 
> This journey is far from over - I have two sequels in the works, tentatively titled I shall not live in vain [about Míriel's motivations, Aman's perspective on her actions, her departure, and her arrival in Middle Earth] and There’ll be love and laughter [about the early Second Age, the recovery from the war, the founding of new realms, and meeting the new neighbors]; they may or may not be posted in that order. I'll probably wait until I have each one done before I start posting, so don't expect these for a while. There's a third story beyond that planned, but even a vague mention of the plot would spoil it
> 
> Kudos if you can guess what the last line is a reference to!


End file.
